The Final Countdown

"The idea of fatherhood unleashed a swirl of emotions in me. I found it frightening, invigorating, daunting, and exilerating all at the same time"- Khaled Hosseini from the The Kite Runner

Despite having to trudge through the soggy autumn leaves, drained of their vibrant colours due to the dampness from the rains that characterize Vancouver, I am still overjoyed to once again have the privilege of enjoying autumn. We are experiencing our first fall in many years and despite the dominant wet weather that has unsurprisingly plagued Vancouver, the few fine days were so astoundingly gorgeous that the rain hasn't gotten us down; yet. While living abroad all those years, I was conscious that the seasonal cycle was something I was missing out on; something profound that was missing from my life.

And yet nature's irony has not been lost on me either, for just as Her cycle approaches one of death, a cycle of rebirth - a spring - is about to commence in my own life.

That's right, my friends, the countdown is on. Can you hear the theme music? Anyone remember Europa? My devilish goal in writing this letter is not to update you, at length, about what is going in my life, but to make you suffer through your day by planting the seed of one of the worst and catchiest tunes of all time into your heads. Brwahahaha...

You haven't heard from me for a while and the reason for that is that the madness of parenting has already begun. No, baby isn't born yet but the nesting process and the necessary preparations have. There has been furniture to put together, pre-natal classes to attend, weekly doctor's appointments, a fantastic baby shower to reap the benefits of kind friends and foot rubs to administer. Time, something I never felt I had enough of even before the pregnancy, will no longer be controlled by my selfish wants and needs. I am stubbornly and slowly coming to terms with the fact that it's not about me, me, me! anymore. Family comes first and that requires sacrifice on my part. Both my ego and my artist child are throwing little tantrums but they'll get over it.

Every day, a new person asks me the inevitable: are you ready? An equally poignant and silly question when you think about it. It's similar to being asked , "Are you OK?" , after you've broken up with your girlfriend. In both cases, there is no immediate answer. Only time will tell. Am I ready? I reckon there is a little hell yeah, and, god no in the answer. I mean, this isn't exactly an exam. Sure there is lots to read up on but the more I read, the more I realize that this is is going to be a lifelong instinctual experience that can be summed up by different authors and experts, but only actualized by doing it. There, my answer is about as clear as mud. I do know that the only way I could express it was a mix, a to and fro, between excitement and nervousness. Not very creative or expressive. That's why I was happy to come across the quote from the Kite Runner, as it summarizes it much better than I could.

The due date, or D-day as Michele lovingly refers to it, is October 27. A mere week away. Michele is wonderfully large and round in the belly, glowing and beautiful in the late stages of her pregnancy.(and I'm not just saying that for brownie points -although I could use a few...). For the most part, it's been a happy ride for mamma-to-be, lacking in swollen ankles, carpel tunnel syndrome and other such malaises that many pregnant women experience. The only strange craving to record is the sudden desire for Captain Hiliners fish fingers. I mean, that's odd for anyone, of any sex, over the age of say 14 years old. I'm just glad there hasn't been any three o'clock wakings to my throat being grasped by a pair of hands and a psychotic voice demanding nutella and garlic on toast - NOW! Nor have the hormonal changes affected her attitude from minute to the next, up and down as a boat in a storm at sea. A few tears have been shed, and more than a few obscenities have surprisingly escaped from Michele's angelic mouth, but for the most part she has been wonderfully even-keeled for this seemingly interminable 9+ months.


However, that said, there is no such thing as a perfect pregnancy and she has had her fair share of struggles. Morning sickness (I have submit a formal request to the Pregnancy Board to officially change it to any ol' time o' day sickness), sore back and hips, acid reflux from a stomach that is pushed up near the oesophagus, heartburn, as well as sleepless nights due to a future gymnastic gold medalist practicing parallel bar routines in the belly during the hours of 11 PM to 7AM. And the other day, a trip to the shops that should have taken 20 minutes, took her an hour and half thanks to baby presumably grabbing onto to an innerd and twisting with all his/her might for fun, forcing her to stop every steps to wince in pain. Sure sounds like fun doesn't it ladies? There is also the matter of a compressed bladder suddenly propelling peeing into a major concern for any outing. A forgotten trip to the bathroom before leaving can result in a painful car ride or a jittery wait in a line-up somewhere. Imagine being unable to see your feet, let alone put on socks or tie your shoes. Imagine, and this one was way too unfair n my mind, being told by your doctor that you could lose a few pounds. Were he not delivering our child, I'm pretty sure he would have had a knuckle sandwich delivered to his own mouth for a comment like that. I think you'll agree with me that it's just not what you want to hear when you are about ready to burst. All in all, Michele has taken the role on admirably. She has had ample want to complain and yet she has remained positive and cheerful throughout. She is a trooper and I have to say that I am falling more and more in love with her as our partnership and our new roles as parents begin.

However, our new roles as parents have also forced us into new roles either of us had necessarily wanted or planned on before returning to Canada. For Michele, it has been the classic role of housewife by taking on domestic duties such as cleaning, washing and preparing meals. As for me, it is going in to the office as I assume the role of family breadwinner, or better yet - given my salary and high cost of living in "the world's most livable city" - yeast winner. Sometimes I wonder whether we've reverted back to the fifties and no one has bothered to tell me. While all of it - the new roles and the re-adaptation to Canada - being undeniably strange, we've accepted it for now and are rolling along with the punches. The dude and dudette abide. It's not necessarily how we envisioned life when we originally made the decision to come home (before we found out about baby). And though it hasn't been a cakewalk, I am proud at how we have handled these profound and irreversible life changes so far.

I now find myself waking up at dawn, in the dark, so that I can practice qi gong and do some writing before hopping on my bike for the commute to work. On the odd day where it is clear, the Rockies are quite a magnificent setting to behold. Otherwise, it is chilly and often wet, but I enjoy the fresh air and the exercise regardless. Beats a depressing bus ride along East Hastings I tell ya!

The office environment is a surreal place that I am still adjusting to. It's been over two months now and I am still in training. It's that complicated. I am learning details about financial procedures and transactions that are ridiculously complicated for my abstract mind. Sometimes they even have the gall to make me do a little math.* It's a struggle to keep my apt to daydream mind from drifting while Raman tries to drill into me the information I am required to learn. I try to remain positive, tell myself that through osmosis it's all bound to sink in eventually, but I do go through moments of self-doubt. It's not my dream job, but without the bi-weekly paycheque and the benefits, we'd be screwed. And truth be told, sometimes I arrive home drained and dejected. But then I walk in the door, see the belly and all the promise that accompanies it, get mauled with attention from Flea, get a waff of another delicious meal concocted by Michele, I realize what's really important. My mood swings from self-pity to one of feeling blessed. You know, I got it good after all.

For the record, I haven't given up on writing; just as Michele will eventually pursue photography. But the little miracle insider her belly will put these dreams on hold for the both of us indefinitely. We feel that the baby has chosen us as parents at this particular time, for whatever reason.

So, the next email you will receive within a few weeks will hopefully be a picture of a healthy baby that looks just like me! Or, for the baby's sake, maybe it's best that (s)he looks more like Michele. As you should have deciphered, we have kept the sex of the little one a surprise. I love surprises and I cannot think of a bigger or better surprise than this one. Dreams of it being a girl were reported by several women. Last night, however, I dreamed it was a boy. Michele waivers daily between the two. On verra, quoi. We have a girl's name that we have pretty much decided on but a boy's name remains undecided. Feel free to email me any suggestions. Ideally, it is a name that sounds good in either French or English. I am have half a mind that we need to see the little one before naming it. You know, I'll see it come out and think to myself, “Ah, it was Pablo all along!�

Also, sending a few positive vibrations in terms of a safe and healthy delivery for both momma and baby would be appreciated. And while you're at it, might as well throw in some strength for poppa in his supporting role (i.e for him not to faint), wouldn't hurt either...

papa oj

* Recognizing our hopeless math skills, Michele and I have been playing Mozart to the baby in an effort to not have our child suffer the embarrasing math inabilities of its parents. Apparently, Mozart's compositions were mathematical in nature and studies show that playing Mozart to your baby will magically develop the math part of the brain. Hey, it's worth a shot!

On the Good Foot

The street names rhymes with tabarncac. That was the first sign. But the real omen that sealed it for us was the row of Tibetan prayer flags hanging from the third floor balcony of the house/apartment complex. What better a symbol for us never mind we have since learned that Tibetan prayer flags are trendy in Van). It was both the first and last place we looked at - which is a somewhat of an impressive stat considering the competitive renter's market here. We'd heard too many horror stories of people not taking the first place they looked at, and subsequently losing it, merely because it was just that - the first place they saw. We needed to settle quickly and we did. I think our new landlord Howie Baby (that's my personal little nickname for him which he knows nothing about) took pity on us because of our situation. That sappy intro letter we wrote really worked a miracle - thanks Marie!

Sitting on the front patio of our new cozy abode ("cozy" of course being the code word for "tiny"), I notice cyclists struggle up and skaters cruise down the steep grade of Adanac St.. Flea lays sprawled out in the sun while Michele soaks it in wearing her Little Miss Sunshine t-shirt. Proof that it does occasionally get nice in the rainy city...

Ok, if you want to get technical about it, this was the second place we saw. However, the first one doesn't really count seeing as how when we strolled up at 1:15 - right on time - the landlord was counting a big bundle of cash and the new tenant, presumably with the 1:00 appointment, was already signing papers. "It happens", offered the landlord when he noticed us, not even bothering to look up from his wad. It all happened so quickly that I stood stunned frozen for a second; then I clued in that we had lost out. Oh, it's like THAT now. Such a humbling experience can be both motivational and educational. but it can also instill fear - especially seeing as how 95% of the places advertized for NO PETS in the classifieds. Funny, I see dogs around everywhere. Our friends Sean and Marie chose to offer 50$/month extra on top of the asking price to secure their place in Kits - and they don't even have any pets. So we were a bit concerned until Howie Baby left us a message saying on the same day - when he had previously said he'd get back to us in a few days - saying that it was ours if we wanted it.

Now we had to decide whether or not to take it without the luxury of comparing it to anything else. And so the Tibetan prayer flags and the fact that it rhymes with tabarnac proved to be too strong omens to ignore and we decided to take it and alleviate the stress of finding a place. And now that we've settled in, there is no regret whatsoever. It's clean, new and in a pretty cool part of East Van called Commercial Dr. It reminds me a bit of College St. in T.O. before it got all trendy and uppity. There are bars where South Americans and Italians are watching footy at all hours of the day. I must say that it is refreshing to be back in a multicultural setting after all these years away.

Things are falling into place rather nicely you'd say. Our biggest allies to getting sorted so rapidly have been Michele's parents. They have exceeded their generosity tenfold by supplying us with everything from deluxe bed, bedding, pillows, to kitchen stuff and large towels. All colour co-ordinated mind you. But the real kicker is the almost new, size-efficient, fuel efficient and no-frills efficient, 4 door Pontiac Wave, complete with go faster stripes on the side. It's basic. It's perfect. And it doesn't stop there. They also paid for our first year of insurance to boot, a sizeable amount for new drivers (apparently our combined previous 15 years Canadian driving experience means nothing to insurance folks as they offered us 0% discount- isn't that lovely).

After closing the deal for our July 1st move, we headed back to the little paradise of Gabriola to visit, and gather the rest of our stuff (that includes Flea) where were treated to Alberta beef steaks the size of our plate (sorry veggie freaks but damn are they tasty), roasts and fresh strawberries on ice cream as the hummingbirds whizzed around getting high off nature's nectar. It was tough tearing Flea away from her new home in the country, and her pal Daisy, but we stuffed our little car to the max and headed for the big city. Leaving the relaxed vibe of Gabriola to come back to the city was a little like paradise lost for the three of us.

Now comes the potentially scary part. We're on our own, jobless, and moving into an unfurnished apartment. You know what that means. You need all the little details you normally take for granted like a can opener, scissors or an elastic for instance. If you want to cook, you suddenly realize you need a wooden spoon or spices - all of them. You room needs a bedside table, the living room needs chairs. You even need tupperware for leftovers! Money evaporates as quickly snow in the winter here. When they say that Vancouver is one of the top 5 best places to live in North America, they are obviously talking about it from the point of view of those who have the bread - loaves of it. No matter how much I had mentally prepared myself for the inevitable expense of starting from scratch, there is still an involuntary twitch everytime I take that plastic card out to swipe more money out of my account. Some of the locals might think I'm autistic. From my numerous past moves, I've learned to not even bother converting amounts back into the old, cheaper currency I was used to. It was ok to calculate paying 10,000 NT for a 4 bedroom place with huge kitchen, 2 bathroom and but then to settle for this much smaller (albeit much newer) 2 bedroom for about 32000 NT... Shit, I wasn't supposed to do that!

However, there are always gives and takes with anywhere you live. In my ever-optimistic outlook, I submit that I cannot put a price on the clean air I am breathing in - and even more importantly that the bump as we affectionately call him/her - is breathing in through her/his mother. And I know that it's all still new and all but I am still wowed by the sight of snow-capped mountains as I strut along the avenue. Even better, we had the chance to hike at the foothills of some of those mountains on Canada Day with some friends. And in the winter, we'll be able to go snowshoeing up there!

I've had some nibbles in terms of job prospects but nothing substantial as of yet. I did reel in a small fish that will give me a bit of cash on the side but I need to land that tuna in order to provide for the family. These are some unfamiliar waters and I'm an un-experienced sailor to begin with, so I'm still feeling my way around out there on the sea of employment. I'm pretty patient as far as it goes so I'll just keep throwing the line out there.

Last Saturday, I did get a pretty cool non-paying gig though. I was at the U-20 World Cup sitting in the press box to cover the Scotland vs Costa Rica game for a local online sports magazine. They gave Gaston an official press pass and everything. Sitting there absorbing the match, impressed by those skilled young punks out there on the pitch, I thought to myself that I could definitely get used to that kind of work. And had it not been for an email that went into the Fifa dude's junk mail, I would have been at every first round match. The good news is that there is one 2nd round match still to be played in Vancouver and the teams as luck would have it are Spain vs Brazil. I'll have a sangria in one hand and a samba drum in the other come Wednesday night.

Well, it's evening which means it's getting chilly outside. Hear that Tainan, chilly! Eat your sweaty little hearts out! Now I will return into my pink-carpeted abode (no, we can't really believe we have pink carpets either) to stare blankly at the pale yellow walls until our other shipment of decorating stuff arrives from Taiwan. If you're ever in town, do look us up. It's real easy to find us, just remember the Commercial: Adanac rhymes with tabarnac! Then just look for the Tibetan prayer flags et voila! Or, if you're not the resourceful type come to 1837 Adanac St or give me a call at 778-318-0462.


This is oj just letting you know that Michele, lil' oj, Flea and me are off on the good foot. And like JB (RIP), it's right about time for the splits. Aiiiiiiiiiiii,,,ow. I shouldn't have tried that. A la prochaine!

oj

King of Hill

It is never more evident than during the Chinese New Year how densely populated this little island really is. A population of 25 million people with identical vacation time on an island roughly the size of Vancouver Island, bearing in mind that 70% of the island is covered in mountains and that 95% of the population lives on the west coast. Crunch those numers and you will find that mayhem on the roads at this time is simply unavoidable. Once the token family feasts and required visitations to relatives homes' have been fulfilled, it's time for families chu qu wan (go out to play). Without exception, all of the families whose children I teach privately stayed in Tainan because they fear the insane traffic. Even when taking little side streets or out-of-the-way country roads in an attempt to avoid traffic, has cars and scooters suddenly appearing dangerously out of nowhere. And to make matters worse, the impatient factor is bumped up a notch so people tend to drive even nuttier than normal, making ridiculously dangerous passes around blind corners, needlessly putting the lives of themselves, their families and strangers in danger. 95% of the time they are taking these risks only to be held up by a line of cars not far ahead.

Why then, in my right mind, would I choose to go on a road trip this Chinese New Year? Well,I figure it's a small price to pay to be able to spend several days on the beach, hanging out for perhaps the last time with a select crew of Tainan vets and long-time friends. And besides, there are ways to avoid the main roads when on a motorbike. Whereas the cars are hopelessly stuck in a single lane, the motorcycle or scooter can usually squeeze through on the side. And there is very little in this world that feels as sweet as cruising next to a scene of mountains dotted with rows of gangly betel nut trees on a warm sunny day. The "scenic route" may take a bit longer yet time seems to evaporate as the special "road trip" playlist on my Nano and scenery unfold - that is, until the reality of sitting on the bike for so many hours stings your behind and you suddenly feel an uncontrollable urge to wiggle your butt to make sure it's still attached to your body. Once again, I had my most trusted road trip companion Chris "The Full Knighty" along for yet another classic road trip together. True to his embracing nature, he convinced a couple of friends from the bar who had barely left Tainan to join. Our convoy now included Aaron and Emily and their two dogs Marley and Dixie.

I had the bright idea to leave very early from Tainan in order to avoid the traffic. What was I thinking? We aren't exactly accustomed to functioning at that ungodly time of day and we paid the price by jellying* not once but twice. Pretty big jellies too. The first one, due to my assumption that my slight deviation from the main road in an attempt to catch up to my party would have me join up with them on the 182 turned into a big ordeal that had Chris backtracking all the way to Tainan and Aaron and Emily going the completely wrong direction. One hour wasted! The other jelly occurred later on when I realized that I had lost the tent that had been slovenly bungied up against my backpack, which was itself bungied up to my bike. I was trying this new technique, see... I've got to admit that I am a bit notorious for the shoddy bungeing. Where are you when I need you most Bungee Master? I told the crew to keep going while I u-eed in hope of finding my temporary home. I rewound my mental tape, retraced the route we had taken since I had last seen the tent about 20 minutes ago after filling up for gas. I figured all I had to do was go back on the 185, find that squiggly road we somehow ended up on and, if need be, back onto the 27 to the gas station. Eyes set on tent radar, I was full of confidence that I would find it. However, despite skillfully recognizing the squiggly road, I was frowning by the time I made it back to the Smile gas station. My only hope was that it had fallen into a ditch on the opposite side of the road where it lay hidden from view. As I veered back onto the squiggly road, something caught my eye. It wasn't the tent, but three bent heads, incense clasped reverantly in hands, devotedly praying to a sacred bodhi tree. I slowed down instinctively. I had to appreciate this classic Taiwan moment: prayer, beautiful and serene, right next to a noisy and filthy major road. I just love the contrast! As I took in the scene, something else jumped out at me. Thankfully, it wasn't a stray dog but my beloved tent! There it was, propped up casually against a betel nut stand. Can you say divine intervention?

Hwy 1 is the only way into Kenting - the most popular beach destination in Taiwan. To get to where we were going, we could not avoid the 1 forever. Yet being road trip vets, we chose a route that had us on the 1 for only 45 minutes before it cut back into the mountains on the Capricorn Highway and then joining up with the dainty 199. The 199, though noticeably busier, remains one of my favourite little roads: about 1 & 1/2 car lengths wide (not suitable for the staggering amount of SUVs we encountered; yet there they were, insensitively bullying all other vehicles out of space), spiralling down through low level mountains toward the sea. Occasionally, it provides an opening, revealing stunning shots of the Pacific, until it hooks up with the 26 where it hugs the coast for 20 or so memorable kilometres of crashing waves until we reach our destination.

We stay in a small fishing village called Jiou Peng where friends of ours rent houses to support their recent surfing obsession. Tucked away in a relatively quiet area, away from the major route up the east coast to Taidung, it remains relatively remote and quiet despite its close proximity to Kenting. Pitching our tents near the Jiou Pong beach, in a grassy area previously camped at and respected for its shade, dubbed the Hippie Commune, we spent 4 wonderful days in the Pong. I managed to get in two sunset boogie boards, many keep up sessions, some hiking (the baby macaque shyly spying on me from the tree being the highlight), big cookups at night, hanging out and chatting with friends as time slows down to a standstill (reminiscent of cottage-life in Ontario), music jams at night and waking up each morning and jumping off the pier into the sea as first order of the day. Good living.

We left Jiou Peng on a moody morning where wind and drizzle accompanied an ominous dark sky. Still, the drive along the coast, though chilly, was dramatically beautiful as waves crashed extra mightily into the rocks near the shore. Though I was sure we would encounter rain, somehow we managed to steer clear. Rain combined with cold is the cruelest way to ruin a road trip. And sure enough, once we had wound our way back up the 199, onto the Capricorn highway and back onto the 1, the weather cleared so as to provide us with some sunshine.

Now I had to a decision to make. For those who know me well, decision-making isn't my strongest suit. My tentative plan from the start had been to go to up to Wutai to visit my friend Basel on the way home. But given the weather and mood that morning, I had been leaning towards the coziness of home; yet, now, snacking on a giant piece of bbq'd squid, soaking up the warmth of the sun, the idea of mountain air suddenly became appetizing again. How many more opportunities will I have in my lifetime to go from the beach to the mountains in the same day? I decided to wait until we had reached Shui Men, the nearest town to where the road splits towards Tainan and Wutai, to make my final decision.

We stopped for a rest near Water Gate. I gave Basel a call to make sure it was still ok to come and he gave me the green light. That was probably enough but he also mentioned that he was leaving for Korea the next day so this would likely be the last time I'd see him for awhile and my last chance to go up to Wutai for who knows how long. Chris - who has been with me up to Wutai twice in the past - passed up on the opportunity, preferring to get back to his cat and other city affairs. I did not try too hard to convince him, though I initially had reservations about going alone for some reason. Michele and Flea had already gone home the previous day so I really was on a solo mission. Then I realized it had been some time since I had done just that: gone on a solo mission. And though I love my friends, my girlfriend and my dog, I also have a tremendous passion for adventuring on my own. Decision made, I hastened away from my traveling companions and our lovely chill out spot, making a right turn instead of a left so that I now sped in the direction of the high mountains rather than the plains, trying to make it up there before the fading light disappeared altogether.

I first roll past the touristy town of Sandimen, famous for its aboriginal residents and culture. Another 10 minutes later, I reach the checkpoint gate. Wutai is a protected area and theoretically you need a permit or at the very least a reference from one of its residents to get in. The idea is to protect the Rukai peoples which have thrived there for hundreds of years. While I must support this ideal, I also do not want it to stop me from going to appreciate this gorgeous place. As usual, the gate is half closed, allowing only enough space for one regular-sized car to pass through. I've had horrible experiences at this checkpoint in the past. I recall being given a hard time once even though accompanied by Squirrel, a native of Wutai. Never have the gatekeepers been courteous or friendly whatsoever; preferring always to treat us with suspicion rather than courteousness. But this time I planned to execute the "Act Like You Know" routine exactly as I had done when I came up just this past New Year's. As I approached the gate, I slowed down, gave the guards a friendly grin and a wave and proceeded on through as though I belonged. Once again, it worked like a charm as the guard reacted with a perplexed look. It probably wasn't worth the effort to stop me.

Up, up, and further up I went, taking advantage of the last bit of dwindling sunlight. I made decent time, arriving with about 45 minutes or so before darkness would rapidly envelop the entire valley. Already, I deem trip as worth it; just the sight of these steep, young mountains, driving on the incredibly high roads, and breathing in the fresh air soothes the soul in an indescribeble way. I suddenly couldn't believe I had been even considering otherwise. Once past the village of Wutai itself, I was shocked to hear a man and a woman dueting "Angie" by the Rolling Stones amazingly loudly as I approached Banosaru, the name of Basel's property. It overlooks not only the village but also allows for a panoramic view of the many peaks and valleys surrounding Wutai.
I turned first onto the service road then, keeping left, up the gravel driveway and under the sign reading "BANOSARU", carefully navigating the no-room-for-error, rather gaunt driveway, as it bends around and up to level 1. There are a few motorbikes parked as well as the familiar sight of Basel's Volvo. I unhook the bungees to free up my bag and make my way up to level 2, passing the tool shed and adjacent "tea house" where weekend guests can sit, chat and drink green tea - favourite pastime of the Taiwanese. I salute the Generalissimo when next I pass the fountain where permanently resides a statue of Chiang Kaishek, feet firmly planted two inches below the water. And Basel has the audacity to claim not to be political.

The driveway continues to zig zag as I now climb up to level 2 where two seperate guesthouses reside side by side. In front of the guest houses, there is an open space where people can sit and gaze at the view, eat some food or simply hang out. Today there is a group of people that I assume are Brusan's (Basel's wife) relatives. I recognize only his in-laws from previous visits. Presently, they are wrapping and baggin up a staggering amount of meat off of the grill for each member to take home. Looks like I arrived at the tail-end of a big bbq feast. "Rats", curses my stomach, growling over my poor timing. Brusan's father seems to read my face or my thoughts for he brings over a sausage on a stick for me to snack on. Then Brusan appears, asking me if I have contacted Basel yet. She seems oddly distant and in fact, she doesn't even seem to recognize me even though we have met several times. She tells me to set my things down and that she'll take me to see Basel who is at the KTV. Then it clicks in my turtle-like mind: of course it had to Basel singing Angie as I drove up! The guest house remains familiar from my relatively recent trip up here. Basel's psychedelic paintings are always a pleasure to examine. I decide to also have a quick change of clothes as I feel quite grimy from the drive. Murphy's Law still applies for as soon as I have stripped down to my underwear, someone outside begins calling me urgently. I scramble to get some pants on and peek outside to see who it is. A big burly stern-faced aboriginal is peeking impatiently to see what I'm doing.

I hop back on the Yamaha and follow the large, squat Rukai man down the road no more than 150m to the neighbour's house. Apparently, nobody walks around these parts either. My eyes are immediately attracted to the table where 5 or 6 men are sitting around a table filled with beer, booze and remnants of several hours of feasting. Behind them, Basel and a large woman are reaching the song's crecsendo as they are entranced by the words inscribed on the ever-cheesy KTV video. He is then informed of my arrival and turns around to gaze at me. As ever, I am stunned by the larger than life presence of this man. His long, dreadlocked hair hangs down just about to his ankles of his unusually massive frame, while his eyes remain customarily hidden behind thickset, trendy n' funky glass frames. For such an imposing man, he offers me the most delicate of hugs. We are mutually happy to see each other. He is quiet, perhaps searching for the proper words to show his appreciation.

Then Brusan comes to greet me. The real Brusan, that is. I realize that it wasn't Brusan whom I saw at his house but one of her sisters. No wonder she seemed so distant. They pour me a cup of Taiwan Beer and the toasting begins. Everyone is drunk - and has been for some time. Drinking and feasting in celebrate before a departure is the way of these mountain folk. Toasts are personal and done individually rather than the group toasts we are often accustomed to. Each toast demands the toasting ritual be respected: individuals maintain eye contact with one another, place one hand under the cup as the other hand draws the cup to lips, downing the entire contents of the cup and then making sure to re-establish eye contact before setting the cup down. The very fact that you don't sip but gulp down the booze renders intoxication that much more efficient!

Next they provide me with a platic bowl, some chopsticks and a spoon. Let the feasting begin as my tummy rumbles in anticipation. Basel tells me that he has had a goat, a 150 kg boar (Yes, the Rukai hunt boar a laAsterix and Obelix), and several chickens slaughtered for the goodbye feast. He informs me that the men sitting around the table are his closest friends from the village. One is a famous aboriginal singer/musician, another the clan's top hunter, another is a handyman etc. I try to match the face with the specialized skill for now. It is clear that Basel holds them all in high esteem.

Once the formalities are over with, I get down to the business of eating. After a long drive with only a stop for the BBQ'd squid in Fongshan, I am e si le (Mandarin meaning hungry to death). Mountain pork, a rack of grilled goat ribs, ginger goat hot pot and steamed fish relinquishing huge chunks of juicy meat satisfy my palette - and then some. All the while, my cup is constantly being refilled. "Eat, eat", pleads Basel as if not noticing that I have been mowing down consistently for the past hour. Basel and I catch up as the other men hold animated discussions. During breaks in our own conversation, I listen and observe the Rukai interacting with each other. It is clear that, related or not, they are all brothers, giving off the impression of a familiarity only exhibited by friends who have known each other since childhood. Occasionally, Basel or someone else would get up on a whim to sing a song on the KTV. When the macho hunter steps up to belt out a tune, his voice is surprisingly soft and melodic. The aboriginals really take their music seriously. When he is done, I ask him if he will take me out hunting sometime as I think it fascinating to watch first-hand any experts or masters in any discipline. He gives me a once over and simply shakes his head in refusal, stating confidently that I am too tall. For good measure, he also adds that I am also too slow. I knew the request was a longshot but I didn't expect to be shot down so ruthlessly. He's probably right, though. At last, I cannot eat another bite and we return to Basel's.

That night, rather than go down into the village, Basel makes a 5 star fire and we sit and chat in a way only two likened souls can do. If you were to compare the two of us based solely on personality, you would find two very different people; and yet, I feel there is some sort of inexplicable bond between us. The heart to heart talk which spontaneously arises around the fire, in a natural and vivacious setting devoid of the many distractions of an urban environment, guide us from subject to subject, until several hours have passed and many large bottles of beer are splayed on teh ground. It is rare occasion to see me drinking until I'm drunk these days but tonight it just seems appropriate for some reason. Basel finally passes out after his long drinking bout and I am exhausted from a full day of driving. On my way back down to the guesthouse, I run into Brusan and Liang Liang, recently returned from their party. They cajole me into sharing one last beer with them before I finally hit the pillow, instantly plunging into a fathomless mountain slumber.

I'm woken up the next morning by Basel's voice echoing throughout the valley. It feels neither too early, nor too late. I'm feeling a little rough yet as soon as I step outside into the warm day and cast my eyes upon the lush green of the valley, I already feel much better. I just love it here. I inhale deep quantities of fresh mountain air before going up to see what's cooking. I welcome into my oral cavity some noodles and fresh steamed veggies from the garden Liang Liang has prepared for breakfast. To my surprise, they are already drinking beer. They say the best way to cure a hangover... Fortunately, I do not feel that hungover. I prefer a cup of 6 year old red ginseng tea - highly prized in Korea I'm told - to do the revival trick. Basel then asks me if I would be so kind to go into town to fetch some more beer. I happily oblige. When I return, he asked me if I noticed the large tree in the school yard opposite the shop. I replied that I had. "Did you know that tree was the very same one the Rukai used to hang their enemies on before decapitating them?", he continued. "If you go to Maolin, there is a sacred tree that used to hang the captured Rukai". I had forgotten about the head-hunting nature of the peoples who first inhabited this island and suddenly became intrigued by the subject. This began a series of interesting stories about the savage nature of the history of these people.

After hanging out a bit, I decide to take a drive by myself to the end of the road, which ends at a town called Ali. In all previous visits to Wutai, I have never been passed Basel's property. It is only about 10-15 km but it is a magnificent stretch of road due to all the twists and turns as well as the sheer drop of the cliff. I am still just as shocked that they managed to build roads up here. Aside from the philosophical question of our creations being morally right or wrong, humans are without doubt amazing creatures. Five minutes up the road, I stop and take out my new binoculars and gaze at a kettle of hawks (look it up I dare you) riding the air currents. If I had to pick any activity to do for eternity, effortlessly riding the air currents like the hawks might just be the one I'd choose. I could watch them all day. Finally, in the name of effective time management, I tear myself away and hop back on the bike.

But I make it about 20 m before I feel compelled to stop again. This time I am drawn by another creature which is much closer to the road. At first I think it is a hummingbird but upon closer inspection, when it finally rests on the branch of the tree it has been busily discovering and I am able to pin it down in the binocular lense, I realize it is a type of butterfly which I have never seen. It is exquisitely coloured, mixing a deep black with vibrant red, with slender shapely extensions at the bottom of its wings rather than the usual heart-shaped synchronicity of the standard butterfly. After seeking out the name since the trip, I have learned only that it belongs to the swallowtail family of butterflies.

The town of Ali is as small and quaint as you might expect for a town in the middle of mountains. However, I am in the mood to be in nature and decide to follow an old, unpaved road leading to a water tower of some sort rather than explore the town. The road soon turns into a dirt path. Here I catch glimpses of the birds I often see caged up un the parks in Tainan. It is a hobby for some Taiwanese to bring their caged songbirds to the parks and gather. Sure it's lovely, but I'll never support the concept of cageing up a bird. As comedian Brian Regan says when personifying a parrot: "Thanks alot, I've been blessed with the gift of flight. I really appreciate the environment. Oh, and by the way, I've done reading this page".

The path eventually leads to a dried up river bed. The river must be the source of the village's water supply because I accompanied by a gurgling sound emanating from visible pipes running alongside the path and there are signs of previous human visits in the form of litter. Not a bit surprising for Taiwan unfortunately. I climb up the large boulders of the dried up river bed, which is likely active and much differnt during the rainy season. These giant rocks provide the best jungle gym in the world as they are a cinch to climb. I feel as if I could keep going for days and once again must force myself to hold back a little. Beyond lay acres of relatively untouched wilderness, flora and fauna (barking deer, macaques, wild boar, Asiatic bears etc) that I would love to explore. But alas, I must contain myself. Besides, I've got lots on my mind these days and it seems the perfect place to sit and figure stuff out for myself.

I return to pay my final respects to Basel and Brusan before catching the last few hours of light for the return drive home. As good hosts do, they insist that I leave with a full belly. He searches for some sort of parting gift (Wutai - the board game?) and finds a pendant made from metal and beads made by a local artist to give me. I'm touched. Once again, he cannot help but be emotional when it's time to say goodbye. He has nothing but sadness for my imminent departure from Taiwan and has done little else but shower me with confidence and encouragement, assuring me that Michele and I will thrive in Canada. I feel much the same, but to hear someone else say it with such conviction means more to me than he realizes.

I don't know the next time I will be in Wutai, but I have a feeling that I will be back someday. In fact, I would gladly return to Taiwan with the intention of spending a holiday up there. And the next time I come, Basel will have completed the house up on the fourth level which he has recently begun construction on, leaving this house on the third level to serve as yet another magnificent guest house. It is easy to picture Basel, sometime in the future, looking out of the window of his living room out onto the extensive, lush valley, satisfied that his work is done. At last, he will truly and deservedly feel like the King of the Hill.

* jelly: slang we use around here to describe silly mishaps